


embedded in frost

by cosimamanning



Series: just one, i'm a few [4]
Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/F, Lots of Plant Metaphors, Rachel Duncan: A Character Study, Rachel is Lonely and Just Wants to be Loved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-28 07:42:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11413332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosimamanning/pseuds/cosimamanning
Summary: Rachel Duncan grows up knowing that she is nothing special.//////Most days the loneliness consumes her, and most days, Rachel lets it.





	embedded in frost

**Author's Note:**

> hi yes mood for this is "empty" by pvris. special thanks to elle and norma for yelling with me as i wrote this

Around the world, children grow up hearing from their parents that they are special, one-of-a-kind, unique individuals. They grow up knowing that there is something innately _different_ about them, something that sets them apart from the others, and it fills them with a sense of self, of individuality, of importance.

Rachel Duncan grows up knowing that she is nothing special.

There are copies of her all over the globe, little girls with long, dark hair and rounded noses and wide, brown eyes. It’s purely by chance that she’s the one of them that grows up, self-aware, _knowing_ . She’s raised by scientists who tell her she’s a miracle, but Rachel reads enough to know the definition of _miracle_.

 

  * __An extraordinary and welcome event that is not explicable by natural or scientific laws and is therefore attributed to a divine agency.__



 

She’s the product of science, knows that if the world knew about her existence many would call her unnatural, against God. Unholy. Others would want to dissect her, understand her in ways that only the scientists she calls parents really understand. But Rachel knows that every part of her can be explained, every gene sequencing, down to why the patch of skin between her eyebrows gets inexplicably dry sometimes, even when she makes sure to moisturize. She is not an _extraordinary_ event, and when she spies looks at her parents, studying her like the experiment she knows she is, she wonders if she is welcome.

 

  * __A remarkable event or development that brings very welcome consequences.__



 

Rachel thinks the adults would have liked it more if they were able to produce adults. Instead they are stuck with children.

Scientists do not make very good parents, she decides, even as Ethan Duncan makes valiant attempts, teaching her secret languages and reading books with her about far-off islands. Scientists are clinical of their mistakes, and sometimes Rachel can’t help but think that’s what they all are, her and the others with her face that she knows about but doesn’t _know_. Mistakes.

She doesn’t think becoming parents is a welcome consequence.

Susan Duncan’s eyes grow cold some nights, as though she can’t remind herself how to be nurturing, how to love. She reprimands Rachel when she watches the tellie for too long, and tells her that if she strains her eyes too much she’ll need glasses, like the other one that Rachel doesn’t care enough to know by name, not yet, but Rachel drinks in the images of the screen, of families. Tenderness.

Some days she aches to reach out and touch it, hopes, somewhat childishly, that maybe it will suck her in and she can feel some of that love for herself, even if they are only actors. Actors would be better than scientists.

Scientists do not make very good parents.

 

  * __An exceptional product or achievement, or an outstanding example of something.__



 

Exceptional things are usually unique, and Rachel is one of dozens, if not hundreds, of variations of the same little girl. She’s just the only one who _knows_ , and the knowledge makes her so lonely and so bitter and sad that most days it threatens to swallow her like the beasts in Ethan Duncan’s stories. She is not an outstanding example of anything, because she’s not yet old enough to be outstanding at anything.

She wants to be outstanding at _everything_.

Rachel Duncan is self-aware but she’s alone and her bones ache with the desire to be loved. She craves human connection more than anything, but she’s raised alone with two scientists in a home that is much too big with walls a synthetic off-white and she’s apart of something so _grand_ and yet somehow she feels so small and insignificant.

Some days she reads the files when her _parents_ are away, reads about the copies of herself from the far reaches of the world. She sees a version of her that competes in junior track meets, a version of her that qualified for her swim divisionals, a her that won a baking competition. All these things seem small and insignificant, but they set them apart, and Rachel wonders, not for the first time, what makes her _different_.

Her parents, the scientists, die in a fire in a lab, and Rachel goes to the funeral dressed in all black, standing stiffly as Aldous Leekie holds her shoulder.

She doesn’t cry.

For a while, she thinks she’s broken.

Scientists don’t make for good parents, but they were still hers, in all their imperfections. Leekie moves into the house, bringing with him even more scientists and doctors and staff members, but it still feels much too big and Rachel feels much too small. Her hands trace over walls that Ethan Duncan walked her down as soon as she was big enough to toddle, down to the greenhouses where Susan Duncan lovingly tended to crops that Rachel never had the talent to keep alive.

Rachel cuts and dyes her hair and sets off to reinvent herself.

The mansion is still too big but it is _hers_. She knows the halls and trapdoors and secret passageways the way she knows herself. She locks herself in the library and reads books that Susan and Ethan collected across the years in their many pursuits, intellectual and recreational, soaks in knowledge like a sponge, and she lets her mind expand.

She’s still alone, so painfully alone, but in the library, surrounded by books and adventures of those who came before her, factual or fabricated, she doesn’t feel quite so lonely. She eats dinner with Aldous and always tells him what she’s learned, and some days she can trick herself into thinking he’s genuinely invested in her growth and not just tracking her neural development.

Rachel learns French and German and starts on her Finnish, because she knows where her copies are, and she always wants to be ready. By the time her thirteenth birthday rolls around, and Leekie presents her with the latest technology and an importation of a thousand books from a collection Ethan had stowed away at one of his labs in Europe, Rachel thinks that maybe she can live with it.

The loneliness.

Another year stretches on, and Rachel absorbs knowledge as she always does, because there are still parts of her that need to feel special. She compares herself to the others almost obsessively, aligns her strengths to their weaknesses, her flaws to their victories. She’s never good enough for herself, for anyone, and she’s alone and aching, but she’s alive.

On her fourteenth birthday Leekie brings her a much different present.

Jennifer Fitzsimmons comes into the house blinking and curious, and Rachel assesses her from behind a spyhole in a painting. _The swimmer._ Two women follow close behind her, talking to Aldous, talking about different concerns they have for their daughter.

Their daughter.

Rachel wonders if Jennifer’s mothers made for better parents then scientists, wonders if they raised Jennifer under the guise that she was _special_. Her lip curls at the thought, and for a moment she pities the others.

They’ll all come to the realization that they’re one of many, eventually, and the carefully constructed image of their individuality, their uniqueness, will come crumbling down like the playing card houses Ethan Duncan used to make when he was bored. She thinks it’s better to have known all her life that she is nothing special, rather than to have the thought that she was festering in her mind for years only for it to be disintegrated before her very eyes.

Jennifer spies her during her initial visit only once, wide, curious brown eyes meeting Rachel’s own, and she freezes.

Rachel doesn’t care to admit it, but she does, too.

It’s one thing, to look at her face in files on a computer screen, but another thing completely to see one reflecting right in front of her, near enough for Rachel to reach out and touch. She thinks, looking at Jennifer, that she looks so filled with life, so _loved_ , and for the first time, Rachel wishes that she was in the place of one of the others.

 _Any_ of the others.

Jennifer blinks at her owlishly and opens her mouth, but before she can say anything Rachel ducks around a corner and into a hidden alcove near the preserved finches, disappearing down a secret passage, heart pounding so loudly she thinks it might find its way out of her chest.

She’s thankful the first to come was the swimmer and not the runner, the runner would have surely caught her.

Jennifer makes the move a couple of weeks later, bringing with her suitcases and laughter and _life_ and a few cans of paint that Rachel eyes suspiciously from her hiding places. They dance around each other, Jennifer still tentative and unsure, and Rachel―

Rachel is so lonely that some days she’s drowning and some days it pounds in her ears and it’s the only thing she can hear and it consumes her, but she’s been alone so long that being alone is all she knows. Life is fleeting, impermanent, attachments fade and people come and go.

Rachel is so lonely she’s scared of being anything else.

Jennifer finds her in the library one day and asks her what she’s reading, and it’s almost ridiculous because nobody’s ever cared enough about Rachel to _ask_. For a moment, the briefest of moments, Rachel considers answering, but Jennifer seems to know what she needs before even she does.

“That’s cool,” she says instead. She doesn’t reprimand Rachel and tell her she’s rude, or press further, investigating in on the furthest reaches of Rachel’s life, Rachel’s psyche. She just accepts the invisible, silent boundaries Rachel has set and moves on. _Cool_. It’s so horrifically american and uncouth that Rachel can’t suppress the slight wrinkling of her nose, but Jennifer just smiles at her, “I’ll leave you to it.”

“You do that,” Rachel agrees, coolly, and then Jennifer leaves, just as she promised she would, and there’s a part of Rachel that wants her to stay. She beats it down as quick as it comes, though, because she cannot afford to be attached, not when they are experiments, not when they are expendable, not when there is a world of things that they do not know.

There is something about Jennifer that sticks, though.

Their tutors are entirely different because Rachel has set herself up for excellence and takes a quarter of her classes in different languages, but they see each other in passing often, and Jennifer always smiles at her. Rachel hates how she reacts to it involuntarily, every single time, her heart rate picking up, lips itching to quirk upwards and smile in return.

Jennifer Fitzsimmons is so filled with life that it seems to flow out of her and into the people and things around her, even Rachel, Rachel who is cold and lonely and locked up inside of herself. Rachel who makes every effort to make herself smaller because she thinks, then, that the world will hurt less.

The others start to come after, but none of them stick quite as much as Jennifer, but none of them make an effort like Jennifer, but Rachel thinks that one is enough to stave off the loneliness, just for a while.

Beth is quick-footed and quick-witted, dead set on finding all the secret passages in the mansion, and sometimes she stumbles upon Rachel, there. Their interactions are mostly mutually exchanged insults and heavily implied judgement, but even these make Rachel feel a little more whole, a little less alone.

Tony coaxes life back into Susan’s greenhouses and Krystal is much too loud and Alison is just… too much for Rachel to deal with. On the days Sarah Stubbs graces the mansion Rachel happily locks herself in the library, because she has no intention of listening to another show tune in her life.

Mika is quiet, and small, and scared, and reminds Rachel very much of herself, but Beth latches onto her side as soon as she sees her, as overprotective as a mother bear, and there isn’t much Rachel can do after that but watch as she always does, for a distance, always wanting to reach out but never being able to.

Human connection was something she was cursed to be able to see, to observe, but never have as her own.

Cosima Niehaus comes and suddenly Jennifer is even _more_.

They seem to fuel each other, Jennifer fills Cosima with life and Cosima fills Jennifer with warmth and they both seem to make rooms permeate with love and it’s almost suffocating, when Rachel’s there with them, overwhelming in experiencing something that she’s been deprived of for so long.

Rachel doesn’t want to get attached, she doesn’t but Jennifer is bright and persistent and she _tries_ , and so when she smiles at Rachel in the halls, Rachel starts smiling back.

The loneliness shrinks, a little.

It’s the first time she acts with her heart and not her head, because logically she knows that this can only end badly, but for once she doesn’t want to be right about something. She wants to be _wrong_ , wants this to last, wants to be able to have this connection, to keep it with her, cultivate it.

Rachel was never the clone with the green thumb, though.

Jennifer gets sick and she wilts like all the failed roses Rachel had tried desperately to raise under Susan’s tutelage. Rachel had trimmed them and watered them and loved them as much as she could and still they died, and maybe that’s what killed them.

Her fingers stained red when she picked at roses with thorns, and she thinks, when she picks Jennifer off the floor of the library after she seizes, her heart is stained red with puncture wounds much wider than she’s used to.

Rachel is used to picking up the pieces of herself, used to breaking and putting herself back together in an endless cycle. Bones broken repeatedly grow back stronger, after all. She’s not used to having to pick up someone else, though, to be the support.

The youngest saplings in the greenhouse had leading, firm staffs to grow alongside, and as she let Jennifer collapse into her, calling for the doctors, eerily calm, Jennifer latching onto her with what little coherence she has left, she feels _needed_.

It’s intoxicating.

She sits primly at Jennifer’s bedside in the medwing, waiting for her to wake up. She looks so small there, fragile and pale, so unlike the Jennifer that Rachel has come to know, vibrant and full of life. As Jennifer sleeps, Rachel burns, because she hates this, hates Susan and Ethan Duncan and Aldous Leekie and everyone else who had any hand in their creation, because they’re sick and Rachel knows that it’s their fault.

Jennifer is wilting and she is the one thing Rachel has truly wanted to flourish, more than anything.

When she wakes up, it isn’t gentle, not romanticized like in the poetry books. The slow regaining of consciousness, fluttering of eyelashes fighting against the brightness of the sun, limbs weary from disuse. Jennifer jolts, the movement too sudden, and Rachel places her hand out, lightly brushing Jennifer’s arm as if to tell her _I’m here_ , before she snatches it away, surprised with herself.

She has to remind herself that she’s only allowed to _look_ , she isn’t allowed to _have_.

Jennifer looks tired and worn and _scared_ , but above all she looks sick. Most days she does a good job of hiding it, behind laughs and smiles and Cosima, but here, in the bed in the hospital wing, surrounded by synthetic white walls, bruises blooming under her eyes from the pressure her nose had taken from the fall, she looks every bit as sick as Aldous reports she is. Rachel’s read his accounts.

“You’re getting worse.” Rachel isn’t good at this, isn’t good at comfort. She was raised amongst scientists who instead of kissing her hurts would tell her the scientific name of every region that was afflicted instead of offering kisses and soothing words. Rachel knows facts and diagnoses and has contingency plans for her own survival, but she never thought she’d care enough to invest in the survival of anyone else. “You’re dying, aren’t you?”

The moment her first batch of roses had truly died, beyond the point that even Susan could nurse them back to health, Rachel cried for the first time she had in years.

“Yeah,” Jennifer admits in a gasping sort of breath, sinking lower into the bed, eyes drooping even more than they already have, “yeah, I’m dying.”

Rachel won’t cry this time, because it isn’t what Jennifer needs. One of the first lessons Susan had taught Rachel in the greenhouse that too much water was just as deadly as not enough, and Rachel will not offer Jennifer tears when Jennifer likely has an abundance of her own.

Instead she sucks in a breath, grounding herself, blinking rapidly.

“Have you told any of the others?” Jennifer shakes her head, and Rachel finds herself genuinely confused, because this isn’t the sort of thing you hide from your loved ones. “Not even Cosima?”

“ _Especially_ not Cosima.”

Oh.

“Why not?” Rachel asks, even though she thinks she knows the answer. It’s always best to be sure, in times like this, and Jennifer looks like she needs the push. Jennifer swallows heavily and shakes her head softly.

“Because I―” she chokes on her own words and tapers off, and Rachel supposes there are some things that you can’t say, some things that you don’t need to say, but she understands all the same. Jennifer, in her own way, is trying her best to protect the people she loves by keeping them in the dark. Rachel has spent her whole life asking questions and immediately receiving answers, of knowing and having to deal with the pain that knowledge brings.

She wonders if Jennifer doesn’t love her as much as the others, doesn’t think she’s deserving of the protection, or maybe if Jennifer understands that Rachel needs to know as much as she fears the knowledge itself.

Perhaps, in a way, this is Jennifer showing Rachel that she can be loved, too.

“You should tell her that, too.” Rachel doesn’t give advice often, especially not when she thinks it should be obvious, but she sees a bit of herself in Jennifer, scared and alone, curled up in the hospital bed that is not hers, dealing with the weight of a sickness that is much bigger than her, and a knowledge that is her burden to carry.

Jennifer now understands the suffering that self-awareness brings.

Rachel wishes she didn’t have to bear it.

She leaves her soon after, because she knows that Cosima will be there soon, and doesn’t want to be there in their moment, doesn’t want to intrude. Because however much Rachel craves to be a part of it all, a part of this web that’s been woven between them all, she knows that she’s forever destined to be an onlooker, knows that it’s a fate of her own design.

 _It’s safer, that way,_ she justifies to herself, staring long and hard at a mirror as though staring long enough will turn her into someone different, someone more lovable, someone more capable of love.

Rachel’s beginning to think that _safe_ and _lonely_ mean the same thing, and it hurts every time she thinks about it.

Eventually, Jennifer’s condition worsens to the point where she’s confined to the medwing, and the others decorate it for her, bright colors and plants, filling the room with the life that seems to have bled out of Jennifer with her sickness. Rachel comes in the moments she’s alone with her thoughts, knows that those moments are the most dangerous, and passes her books from the library, favorites of hers from throughout the years.

“They help you escape, for a little while,” she offers as an explanation, and Jennifer smiles up at her brightly, beautifully, so thankful and genuine, and though her lips are dry and cracked and there are fresh red stains on the cloth in her hands, she looks at Rachel as though she’s given her _life_.

It’s staggering, and intoxicating, and Rachel hates herself for falling into it, because she knows it won’t _last_. She knows that Jennifer is dying, shares this forbidden knowledge with her, and there are days where it consumes her more than the loneliness ever has.

She comes back, though, every few days, like clockwork, with books.

Jennifer’s hair is gone but she’s still fighting, still trying, and she still smiles at Rachel as though she’s just _Rachel_.

Rachel’s never had a friend before, but she thinks Jennifer makes a good first impression for friendship, even if she might also be the last friend Rachel ever has.

“Rachel?” she asks, one day, when Rachel’s retreated to the medwing to read instead of the library, choosing to sit in silent companionship with Jennifer.

“Yes, Jennifer?”

“I miss braiding hair.” She says it softly, and when Rachel looks up from her book Jennifer’s eyes are hopeful and yearning and how can she say no when she’s _dying_.

“I don’t think my hair’s quite the right length for braiding,” Rachel tries, but Jennifer just stares at her with those eyes, wide and brown and searching, and she sighs and turns. Jennifer’s fingers make gentle contact with her scalp and Rachel _shivers_ , leaning back into the touch, and she’s glad she’s facing away from Jennifer because not even she can stop the tear that escapes her.

Rachel’s parents died in a fire when she was eight, but even before then, Susan and Ethan Duncan were not the most physically affectionate people. She spent her entire life reaching out at screens, aching for touch, for connection, and always being denied.

She’s sitting with a girl with her face, having her hair braided, and for once in her life, Rachel Duncan is not alone, and it’s unfair because she knows, she’s always known, that connection is impermanent, that this moment will not last. That Jennifer will continue to wilt like the roses until she is nothing but a distant memory, a passing scent on Rachel’s blouse.

Jennifer Fitzsimmons braids Rachel Duncan’s hair, knowing full well the significance of the action, of Rachel letting her _touch_ her, and Jennifer smiles where Rachel can’t see her, hopes desperately that she won’t isolate herself when she’s gone.

“You don’t have to lock yourself away, you know,” Jennifer tells her, and for once, Rachel allows herself to listen, “you can let people in.” She pulls strands of Rachel’s hair together with deft fingers slowly, taking as much time as she can. “Life hurts, but without feeling, what’s it all worth, yeah?”

Rachel could come up with a thousand answers, clinical or harsh or humorous, but instead she just lets the silence echo, the words weighing on her ears.

Jennifer gently releases her hair once it’s been tied, and Rachel turns, and she smiles at her, brightly. And, for once, in her bed, surrounded by the origami creatures the others have made her, the plants Tony has brought, _beaming_ up at Rachel, encouragingly, she looks like the Jennifer Rachel remembers from her fourteenth birthday, curious and vibrant and so filled with life.

This is how she chooses to remember her.

Jennifer squeezes Rachel’s hand tightly before she leaves that day, and Rachel leaves another book and smiles at her, hair still braided.

Jennifer leaves, and it aches, just like Rachel knew it would.

After Susan and Ethan died, Rachel wouldn’t go near the greenhouses, for the longest time, couldn’t stand to see the flowers kept alive by the staff or the birds chirping for their partner in song who was no longer there to whistle with them.

The library was her safe haven, but now even the library feels tainted, because Rachel must return books with Jennifer’s looping scrawl in the margins, her little doodled bookmarks tucked into corners of books she never got around to finishing, but Rachel can’t bring herself to take them out.

There are whispers of Jennifer throughout the house, and Rachel tucks the books aways like hidden pieces of treasure for others to find, to remember fondly.

Cosima locks herself in Jennifer’s room for five nights and cries. Not even Beth can coax her out, frayed and for once looking to someone, _anyone_ for instruction. All the clones have tried to explore the house, but no one knows it like her, and Rachel makes her way down the passage she knows opens to the linens closet in Jennifer’s bathroom, and finds Cosima curled up on Jennifer’s bed, with Jennifer’s shark, a shell of herself.

It’s too much too soon, the bright assault of colors, the bright assault of _Jennifer_ , but Rachel kneels down so that she and Cosima make eye contact and the other girl sniffs at her suspiciously.

“How’d you get in?” her voice is raw from grief, and Rachel envies her, envies how easily she lets herself feel.

“There’s a passage in the bathroom,” she explains, “Jennifer used to use it to sneak out at nights and get snacks from the kitchens. She didn’t think anyone knew about it.” Rachel did, though, Rachel always knows.

Cosima laughs, because Rachel is telling her something about Jennifer she didn’t know, and Rachel’s heart constricts because Jennifer is _gone_ and she’s left them all behind and it’s not fair. She gets Cosima to leave the room, and then Rachel disappears, falling back into herself.

Lonely is safe, and she doesn’t want to hurt anymore.

She watches them all, though, closely. From a safe distance, but she watches. Others come, twins. The unknown variables, the escaped surrogate, and Rachel watches as Sarah and Helena Manning shake the very core of knowledge, and suddenly Rachel is grasping at straws, because the one thing she’s always had, the one _victory_ , is that she’s always _known_.

And suddenly, her truths aren’t even the truth.

The loneliness creeps back up on her, and Rachel thinks of Jennifer constantly, of her warmth, of how easy she made it look, _connection_. Jennifer had urged her to try, a dying wish, and Rachel thinks that it was Jennifer’s way of trying to protect her, trying to make sure she wasn’t always alone.

One day, she finds herself in a room with Mika, completely by chance, and the girl reminds her so much of herself it hurts. She bounces on the balls of her feet and looks everywhere but Rachel’s eyes and tugs at the strings of her hoodie, and she looks _scared_.

The hair hanging from her face frames easily recognizable burns, and Rachel looks at her and sees a survivor.

“I like your hoodie,” Rachel tells her, and Mika blinks at her, unsure of what to think, and then Rachel leaves her. Leekie never told her about Helsinki, never told her about the clones that didn’t make it out, but Rachel knows that Mika lost a friend, knows what it’s like, that she’s lost and she’s still living, and Rachel admires her for it.

She’s as vicious to the others as she always is, exchanging insults with Beth and refusing to interact with Sarah outside the imminent threat of death, wrinkling her nose whenever the other girl passes as though she’s smelled something unsavory, and Sarah calls her _bitch_ and flips her off and Helena makes pig noises at her.

Mika must tell them about it, though, because the hostility that’s always existed, mostly of Rachel’s own doing, fades, somewhat. Tony offers to teach her how to repot plumerias and Krystal offers to paint her nails because, according to Krystal, only using silver polish was monotonous and boring and she needed to add more color to her life.

It sounds suspiciously like something Jennifer would say.

Rachel brings Mika a book she thinks she might like, because too many video games can’t be healthy, and Mika just blinks up at her before smiling, and Rachel thinks back to when she was thirteen and learning Finnish for her before she even met her.

They have conversations in Mika’s native tongue, and Mika gently corrects Rachel on her pronunciation of some words, and for once, Rachel doesn’t bristle at the criticism, just accepts it, along with glasses of the iced tea that Mika seems to adore.

Some days they talk about books, and video games, and all sorts of things Rachel never thought she’d talk about, and other days they talk about the loneliness.

“Sometimes my brain makes it difficult,” Mika explains, “to form meaningful relationships with people. Niki was my first real friend.” She smiles softly at the memory of her, eyes sad and far away. “She made it easy.”

Rachel thinks of Jennifer, walking into the library to introduce herself, and thinks of the book she’d been reading that Jennifer had asked the title of that Mika now grasps in her hands, _The Island of Dr. Moreau_.

“It’s lucky to find people like that,” Rachel agrees, and Mika smiles at her, comfortable enough now in Rachel’s presence that she doesn’t tug at her hoodie strings.

“And sad when they leave.”

Rachel nods, and Mika looks down at the book in her hands. Sipping at her tea, though, Rachel thinks that Jennifer was right. Sometimes, life hurts, but without feeling, it never really meant anything.

For once, Rachel will let herself reach out towards the invisible screen, stretch the tendrils of her roots out in the soil and let herself wrap around others, and this time, Rachel will _grow_.

And she won’t be alone.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! hope you enjoyed! comments/kudos are always greatly appreciated. they're my lifeblood not gonna lie. 
> 
> as always, you can prompt me on my tumblr, [here](danaryas.tumblr.com) or check out some of my other stuff [here](archiveofourown.org/users/sam_kom_trashkru/works)


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